The Fungus

“You brought the fungus in with you. With one of these.” Wilson went over to the gun rack and took down one of the rifles, noticing as he did so that the butt, whatever it was made of, hadn’t been eaten away. He displayed the gun to Slocock. “All that crazy beating about in the fungus you were doing last night. A particle of the fungus must have got lodged in the weapon somewhere. In a place where the disinfectant couldn’t reach it. So your macho-man, Captain Action act has totally screwed us up.”

Slocock’s eyes narrowed and his expression grew ugly. “Fuck you, you pathetic-looking piece of crap. You keep your accusations to yourself unless you want me to rip off that little pink imitation of a dick hanging between your legs and stuff it down your throat.”

Wilson took a quick step forward and slammed the butt of the rifle into Slocock’s face. Slocock grunted and fell backwards. There was a crash as the bottle of whiskey shattered on the floor.

It had been a powerful blow, but Slocock was tough. He came back up from the floor as if on a giant spring, holding the jagged end of the broken whiskey bottle like a dagger.

Then he froze.

Wilson was now pointing the barrel of the rifle at him. “Drop it, Sergeant, or I’ll drop you.”

Slocock, with blood pouring from his nose and mouth, sneered at him. “You haven’t the balls.”

“I’ll count to five. If you haven’t dropped the bottle by then I’ll kill you. One. two. three. four. “

The broken bottle fell from Slocock’s hand. “You’re a dead man, Wilson.”

“Aren’t we all?”

Kimberley, who was watching the confrontation with a shocked expression, said, “You’re both being ridiculous. We can’t afford to fight amongst ourselves.”

“We finished fighting. Now we’re talking,” said Wilson. “Or rather, I’m doing the talking, you two will do the listening. From now on I’m in charge. You two will do as I say.”

“And if we don’t?” sneered Slocock.

Wilson rammed the barrel into the pit of his stomach. Slocock made a sound like a deflating tire and doubled over. “That was my last warning,” said Wilson. “Next time I pull the trigger.” He turned to Kimberley. “Start hunting through this mess and see if you can find me something to wear, otherwise I’ll take lover-boy’s clothes, blood and all.”

Kimberley looked worriedly at Slocock, who was on his knees on the floor clutching at himself. He was struggling to draw in a breath but his diaphragm obviously wasn’t working. “I think you’ve hurt him,” she said.

“That was the general idea. You can look after him later. First find me something to wear.”

While she searched the lockers and metal trunks Wilson exchanged the rifle for one of the Smith & Wesson .38s. He checked that it was loaded, cocked it and covered Slocock with it.

Kimberley found a pair of oil-stained overalls in the tool box. Wilson climbed into them, keeping the gun on Slocock the whole time. Then he said, “Check that the spare radio is still sealed up.”

There was a second VRC353 sealed in a metal container which was to be used if their other radio equipment was rendered useless by the fungus. Kimberley confirmed it was Still safe.

“Okay, you can see to him now.” He indicated Slocock, who was sitting up now but didn’t look capable of any trouble. His face was the color of someone who had recently died, and blood continued to stream from his nose. Kimberley knelt beside him and tried to stanch the flow of blood with his shirt. “I think you’ve broken his nose,” she told Wilson.

“It looked broken before.”

He waited impatiently until the bleeding had stopped and Slocock had recovered to the point of being able to get to his feet again. The fight appeared to have gone out of his eyes but Wilson wasn’t taking that for granted. He knew Slocock was an old hand at fighting hard and dirty, and he didn’t intend letting his guard down.

“Okay, Sergeant, you think you can drive now?”

Slocock was still holding his lower stomach. “It feels like my guts are ruptured.”

Wilson fired the revolver. Kimberley screamed as the bullet, which narrowly missed the side of Slocock’s head, ricochetted off the forward hatch and zinged past her.

“Jesus! You’re going to kill us all!” shouted Slocock fearfully, his eyes wide with shock.

Wilson nodded and said calmly, “I’m not very good with guns. Haven’t touched one since my ROTC days at college.” He cocked the revolver again and pointed it at Slocock’s forehead. “You think you can drive now?”

“Yeah.”

“Then let’s get going.” He turned to Kimberley. “You’re going to stay back here. Be an uncomfortable ride, I know, but I can’t afford to have you up front. You might get in the way if there’s any trouble with your friend. Basically I just can’t trust you not to side with him.” He glanced at the gun rack and came to a decision. With the exception of one of the Sterling L2A3 submachine guns he threw the contents of the rack out through the open, and now useless, airlock.